College, Coffee, and Cannibalism
by purpleicecrystals
Summary: After a rather disastrous day, all Will wanted was some peace, quiet, and possibly (optimistically) some sleep, surrounded by his seven dogs. It's not much to ask for. When you live with Hannibal, however... it is. Crossposted from ao3 (2015 Christmas exchange)


I think a meat grinder is out of their budget since Hannibal can't even afford a murder suit. He has no problem getting access to prime cuts of meat, so there's no point in getting ground meat. Plus, I'm of the opinion that the chef and ingredients make the food. So the vegetables and pastries and other things are passable because there's only so much you can make with a student budget… But.. I think the meat is probably phenomenal, although it can probably be better if they had fresh seasoning ingredients.

I'd also like to think that Hannibal once tried to plastic wrap himself as a prototype of the murder suit, but that didn't work out well since it cut off blood flow and he almost died. Now he sticks with a size extra large blue poncho from SeaWorld. And disposable rubbers. And disposable mats. And garbage bags. At the very least, as a diligent History student on a pre-med track taking chemistry classes, he knows how to destroy evidence.

* * *

Each pulse of Will's blood roared and sent pain throbbing through his temples as if someone was banging him like a gong. His shoes were sopping wet, and his hair was dripping, the glistening drops working in tandem to blind him on this miraculous night.

He fumbled for his keys in his book bag, cursing the paper he had just finished at the library, and swearing at Jack, who made him work overtime for the third time that week. Honestly, he wasn't working as a barista for shits and giggles, and he hated looking people in the eyes. He didn't even like anything other than black coffee. Pumpkin spice was enough to make him gag these days, what with going through four bottles of the mixture a day. Fuck his life.

There was also that client who made cow eyes at him for several hours and attempted to chat him up.

Being unused to flattery, not only did he inadvertently shoot down his admirer, he'd also tripped on a wire, ripped a coffee machine out of its socket, destroyed several orders, and burned himself with scalding liquid, which continued to drip off his clothes and stained his work uniform completely beyond repair. The spanking new uniform that had been entrusted to him a mere three days ago was, so to speak, completely and utterly dead.

All he wanted to do was to crash into his bed and die until the next morning. Ahh, the embrace of unconsciousness to wipe away the horror, the idiocy, and the pain of the day. He would drink, but he was a father with seven children to take care of. He had to be a responsible papa for his dogs.

He saw a suspicious puddle on the side of the road and hurried past.

By now, he really didn't think that conking out peacefully was too much to ask for. He certainly deserved it to compensate for his horrendous day.

The sounds of his tired feet reverberated throughout the stairwell, as he climbed the dim flight of stairs up to his shared suite.

His frozen fingers fumbled with the key, shoving it unceremoniously into the lock and turning it clumsily,

Click

Because the counter lights were on, he stepped inside quietly to avoid detection by his suite mate, Hannibal, who could be incredibly unsettling. It was probably his obsession with Will.

He hung up his peacoat and took of his shoes. Scurrying to climb into his warm covers (for his dogs were surely occupying his space on the bed), he put one clothed foot down. The underside of his sock was suddenly wet… And the welcome mat sloshed around his feet.

"HANNIBAAAAAALL!"

The scream pierced the building. The residents of the top floor stabbed the voodoo dolls at their bedsides. The people of the building adjacent to theirs threw umbrellas, potted plants, and household pets at their shuttered windows. One of which had a crack from a particularly well aimed eraser and a small clay pot.

Hannibal flicked the switch on. The mat was soaked with blood. Will's foot was on the mat. Will's foot was bathing in blood.

"You should have turned the light on."

Turn on the lights to what end? To see this? Will screamed into the alternate dimension that is his dreamscape. There was blood on the mat. Blood on the cheap tiled floor. Blood on the counter. Blood on Hannibal's murder poncho. Blood in the sink. LIMBS AND ORGANS IN THE SINK. AND BY GOLLY, WAS THAT A LIVER? Hannibal knew he hated liver, and loved to aggravate him.

"Please," Will begged. "All I really want is cuddle with my dogs and die." And so he did.

* * *

I know it's not like Hannibal to be careless and messy, so I would like to clarify that he has not perfected his killing method yet, and is experimenting with blood stains. Who knows. We cannot comprehend him, we can merely speculate.


End file.
